Living ‘The Hangover’ for real

The two Hangover movies have now grossed over $1bn around the world, making it the most successful comedy franchise in history. What is it about American men behaving badly that so many people find so fascinating? I decided to find out by going on my first ever bachelor weekend in the US.

The invite came from a friend who must remain anonymous. He’s well-known and respected in society, just like many of the upstanding citizens who joined us. They included a Police Commissioner, several of the most Eminent Film Directors and Producers in America, an Advertising Mogul, and a significant player in the White House — whom we can just call Obama-Man. We all pledged to keep what happened on our weekend a total secret. We formed what we all called the Circle of Trust – aka ‘The COT’.

While the worst of what really happened in the COT will stay in the COT, you, dear reader, can have a sneak peek.

The weekend took place in the woods of Massachusetts, where autumn was beginning to turn the leaves from lush greens to melancholy browns and reds. A house had been rented with considerable difficulty. Various owners had turned down the Best Man’s personal assistant when she admitted we were a bachelor party, prompting fears of tiger-torn curtains and stripper-soiled sofas. Diplomatically changing the premise to a ‘40th Birthday Party’, we eventually secured a splendid location for our planned debaucheries.

I first saw our Cathedral of Unbridled Masculinity as we reached the top of a steep hill. It was a massive log cabin, with immense glass windows that overlooked a valley and lake. The Bachelor appeared on the first floor deck, apparently naked. I had a brief flashback of traumatic childhood games of strip poker, but then saw he was actually sitting in an outdoor hot tub in a bathing suit. He ordered us to get a beer and hop in. Unaccustomed as I was to lounging next to eight skimpily clad men, I spent many happy hours in that 105°F liquid. We menfolk imbibed alcohol, watched sunsets, imbibed alcohol, and talked. Conversation topics ranged from how to move the United Nations to Jerusalem; the government’s fiscal policy (two Republicans called for less taxes, seven Progressives called for more); and the greatest music-videos of all time (Thriller, Sledgehammer, Take on Me).

A similar all-male gathering is celebrated in a disturbing new movie, I Melt with You, which I saw at the Sundance Film Festival. It involves four 40-something-year-old university friends (including Jeremy Piven, Thomas Jane and Rob Lowe) who meet every year for a weekend of drugs, fast cars and punk rock. This particular weekend, they decide that their marriages and families are so desperate and empty in comparison with the bromantic happiness they feel together, that they should just kill themselves in one final manly melt-down.

As I sat in the hot tub, belly-laughing with new mates, I too wondered whether I might come to a similar conclusion over the next 48 hours…

Men are generally worse than women at arranging gender-separatist events, and I’ve never been to the female equivalent of a Bachelor Party — what are they called anyway, Spinster Bashes? But I’m pretty confident that girly gatherings don’t involve quite such a dramatic reversion to toddlerhood. An extended focus on the scatological nature of existence, expressed through an explosion of farting jokes that are prohibited in mixed-gender lives, was a source of astonishing relief. The greatest awe was reserved for the Best Man, who boasted he once delivered a poo perfectly formed like a question mark. Tragically, he emailed a photo of the punctuation in question to his new girlfriend, who promptly ended the relationship.

The interior of the Cathedral, which was owned by a wealthy medical inventor, was designed for high-end rustic festivity. In the open-plan dining room, there was a long Camelot-style wooden table, with a throne at the end. It was perfect for the Bachelor to sit in the tasteful pimp robe assigned for him to wear at all times.

There were eight bedrooms, an arcade game with Asteroids, and a combined ping-pong-and-pool table. The bar was stocked with beers, whiskey, vodka and rum. Wine and champagne contained too many XX chromosomes.

On our first evening, we dined on cow, pig and chicken that, as is customary in macho American cuisine, had all been rendered both black and uncooked on a barbecue.

Nine of us then piled into a vehicle designed for five, and drove an hour to the nearest town, in search of chaos.

Roaming the streets, we spotted a clutch of stumbling young women, one of whom wore a polyester bridal veil, and a papier-mâché crown emblazoned with the word ‘Bachelorette’. Since it was now clear that all of us were celebrating the sacred institution of matrimony by behaving like slutty hooligans, we bonded as if we were Freemasons, and headed to a local bar. A live band was playing and we danced to Rolling Stones cover songs. The Bachelorette and I drunkenly mimicked the hand-pulled-over-the-eyes moves of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. The Advertising Mogul informed me this choreography was actually stolen from Adam West’s routine in the 1970s Batman TV show.

Taking a collective breather outside, we started up boisterous banter with a table of Chinese men. The Police Commissioner brokered an extraordinary Sino-Bachelorette deal. This involved the Bachelorette selling her panties for $237 in used bills. I was already aware that the sale of used ladies underwear to China and Japan is one of the last export industries in America – apart from porn, iPads and Predator drones — that are thriving. I once made a TV show, Hollywood Vice, which included a segment on a UCLA linguistics undergraduate who sold four pairs of panties a week through E-Banned.com for $150 each. But she’d never met any of her ‘consumers,’ and I’d never seen an actual trade take place.

The Bachelorette delightedly embraced this cross-cultural transaction. Her friends set up a wall of privacy around her, as she removed her jeans and underwear. After taking the cash, she handed her rainbow-colored panties ceremoniously to the Chinese man. He lifted them into the air like the World Cup, and his friends cheered. They went into rapture when he pulled them over his head. Since he is not in the COT, I am delighted to share this brow-warming image with you:

I asked the Bachelorette how she felt being deprived of her knickers. “They were old and gross,” she giggled, “they cost me $3 at Walmart, so that’s quite a profit, right?”

At 4am, with all the bars closed, we headed back to our Cathedral. For fear of providing evidence to the Highway Patrol, I cannot describe the terrible details of that journey, except the incomprehension that I am still alive.

Our midday wake-up call was the Police Commissioner banging a huge Cherokee drum, while the Bachelor used an echoing karaoke machine to sing Bohemian Rhapsody in his warped idea of Mandarin. That torturous combination could have raised John Belushi from the dead.

Broken fried eggs, bacon and bagels soaked up our first hangover. We headed to the lake, and rented a motorized pontoon boat. We brought two coolers of beer, and, as if living a collective fantasy of being Hunter S. Thompson, began drinking again.

Most of the group did not know each other before the weekend, linked only by friendship to the Bachelor. But the dynamics of all-male socialization quickly emerged, neatly on the lines of Lord of the Flies. A dictatorial Ralph emerged, bossy and the center of attention. So did a Piggy, teased with increasing venom, especially for his alleged sympathy for Michele Bachmann. If a natural disaster had extended our weekend into a month, we would have spit-roasted Piggy first.

Phone conversations with wives and girlfriends were strictly prohibited. But one Eminent Director’s wife found a way to circumvent this rule. She sent him a text saying: “In hospital. Car flipped three times on the freeway. I’m okay, just a few scratches.” There was suspicion that this was her very sneaky way of keeping hubby out of trouble. There was whispering that he might be a mole, reporting back to the Academy of Motion Pictures, or the DEA, or, most terrifying of all, to the Bachelor’s bride-to-be. He begged for one one call, and this was eventually permitted. The crash turned out to be very serious, involving two deaths. His wife was probably still in shock. We judged ourselves kinder than the mafia, and allowed him to leave and take care of her.

Down to only eight, we determined to make the most of our final night. We went out to a Mexican restaurant where, after a round of virile Patron shots, each man had to recount a story involving deep personal humiliation. I told of the awful occasion that…. actually, no, I think I’ve shared enough already, dear reader: you’re still not a certified member of the COT.

At midnight, the bill came in at around $1,000. “Let’s play credit-card roulette,” Ralph suggested gleefully.

Most of the group had not experienced this financial version of The Deer Hunter, but Ralph directed us with potent grace. He corralled one credit card from each of us, placed them all in his baseball cap, and handed it to a doe-eyed waitress. He then lined up a row of chairs, and directed us to sit down, with him in the middle. He instructed the Bachelor, who was mercifully exempted from the game, to film the entire event, as if we were contestants on American Idol.

The waitress shuffled the cap, and put her hand inside…

I was petrified it might be my blue credit card…

To my enormous relief, the emerging plastic was pink, and its owner was… Obama-Man. His face was a portrait of misery. The remaining six of us went wild with joy. Adrenaline was mixing with tequila in my blood, and I had to rush to the bathroom. There, in homage to every cinematic testote-fest from Animal House to The Hangover, I became re-acquainted with my pulled-pork burrito.

The waitress had had enough of us, and told us the restaurant was closing. We headed into the street. Ralph tried to cheer up Obama-Man with a new project, a classic American pick-up technique called The Fall. This involves walking towards a beautiful lady and, right in front of her, tripping. The ensuing tumble to the ground forces her to stop, take notice and inquire about the downed man’s welfare. Ralph and Obama-Man decided to try a two-man approach. They identified an attractive Target, strolled towards her, and then stumbled…

But it went horribly wrong. Obama-Man actually fell into Ralph’s body, throwing him straight at the hapless Target, and crashing her against a car and to the ground. She screamed in agony, clutching her ankle.

A law-suit for assault loomed.

Fortunately, the Target herself was drunk, and that helped to dampen her pain. Ralph and Obama-Man played up their own injuries. The Police Commissioner offered his hand and some chivalrous regret — as this image attests.

The story did end well when, eventually, the Target rose gingerly to her feet and hobbled away, a smile on her face.

After the Bachelor accidentally kicked over a busker’s begging-bowl, we all agreed it was time to get back to the Cathedral before we landed in jail.

The next morning, under assault from the paralysing paradiddle of a second hangover, we worked to forget the night before. We democratically divided up tasks to tidy up the house, which ended up cleaner than when we found it.

As we prepared to leave, the Police Commissioner cheerfully suggested that we arrange a reunion in a similar retreat every year. “The Circle of Trust is so much better than real life,” he sighed.

I reflected again on the male mass suicide of I Melt with You, and weighed that course of action against my home life, blessed with children and struggles – and, most importantly, ladies who discourage fart jokes — and I stood up and strode manfully out of the Cathedral.